


Cold Sheets

by eeyore9990



Series: 30 Thankful Days [25]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Lies, M/M, Protective Derek, Stiles Leaves, perceived infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up to an empty bed.  Again.  But this will be the last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> 30 Thankful Days, Day 25 and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!: Gift for mugglare

Stiles rolls over, the dark of the bedroom too quiet. Too empty. Dread creeps in on him, pushing back the last vestiges of sleep, and he reaches across the bed, touching the other side. Derek’s side. 

It’s cold. 

Rolling back to his side of the bed, he lays there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as the crushing sense of finality presses down on him. And then he gets up. 

– 

“Stiles? What are you… you’re still up?” Derek’s eyes skate around, obviously taking note of the slight disturbance in the room. The little things that are missing. His nostrils flare wide as he breathes in the scent of home, probably overpowered by Stiles’ misery. “What’s wrong? Did someone break in?” And then it must hit him, must all add up, because his breath breaks on a helpless note that echoes in the cracks splintering Stiles’ heart. “ _Stiles?!_ ” 

“I hoped…” Stiles shakes his head, trying to swallow down the knot that’s been wedged there for _weeks_ , but unable to do it. His voice is a reedy, thin thing on the edge of shattering when he says, “I hoped I’d be gone by the time you got back. I only packed my stuff. I–” 

“Stiles, what.” Derek’s eyes are blazing, a furious blue that makes the tears well up in Stiles’ eyes because he’s pretty sure he’ll never see them again after tonight. 

“I just.” Hands shaking, he slips the key to their apartment off his Jeep keys and it rattles a bit against the counter because he can’t get control of himself. Eyes trained on the floor, he edges around Derek, flinches from the hands that try half-heartedly to grab him before drawing back. 

Pausing at the door, he can’t find a way to say goodbye but can’t find a way to leave without doing it. 

The tears are falling freely, and he knows Derek knows they are because even _he_ can smell them, but some part of him thinks, childishly, that if he doesn’t turn around, if Derek doesn’t _see_ them, then Stiles can deny them. Can preserve a little dignity in this whole sad situation. 

“Be happy,” he finally says, voice not nearly strong enough for this. It warbles and cracks, goes stuffy with snot and tears. “Whatever else you do, be happy. Love her, whoever she is. Let her love you the way you deserve. Love her more than you loved me,” he shakes his head, chokes on a laugh that sounds more like a sob, “ _when_ you loved me.” Because he’s sure, almost, that Derek loved him once. “Make her worth it.” 

“Stiles, there’s no one–” Derek’s voice behind him sounds freaked out, urgent, but Stiles can’t stay here and listen to it. Not again. 

So he walks out the door, pulls it shut on Derek’s lies. 

And he goes home. 

– 

The door clicks shut, and it sounds like the cracking of the fire that took his family away from him. It sounds like _over_ and everything inside Derek tells him to run, to fly after Stiles and stop him, bring him back, make him listen. 

But when he drags in a breath, all he can smell is the ash of Stiles’ misery and he knows… _he_ did that. Derek made Stiles so sad, so heartbroken and distraught, that he packed up his pictures of his mom and his clothes and he left. 

His phone goes off in his pocket, the vibration too familiar. He wants to break it in his fist, wants to throw it through the window, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

He picks it up. 

Even as he’s damning himself, _he picks it up_. 

– 

His dad is gone when he pulls up, on shift, so Stiles lets himself into his childhood home, allows the familiar scents to soothe him. He doesn’t bother unloading the Jeep, too exhausted for that kind of emotional labor, just climbs the stairs to his old room. 

But when he opens the door, all he sees is Derek. Derek in the chair in the corner, Derek leaning over his computer, Derek in the window, Derek splayed across his bed. And he knows he can’t do it. 

He can’t be here, where there are so many memories to haunt him. 

So he goes back out to the Jeep, starts it up, and heads away. 

Just… away. 

– 

“ _Derek, Derek._ ” It’s Scott’s voice. It sounds panicked, frantic. 

Derek just drops the phone to the floor and steps over it. 

“ _Derek, what’s wrong? I can feel you… Derek?!_ ” 

– 

He drives. He’s got no destination in mind, no music playing on the radio because some fail safe in his brain is keeping him alive. He’s pretty sure a single Taylor Swift song will send him into oncoming traffic, and he refuses to let this break him more than it already has. 

The tank that had been slightly above ¾ is bouncing off empty when he pulls into a roadside motel somewhere. He’s not sure where, not even sure if he’s still in California. He doesn’t know, and doesn’t have the mental energy to care. 

He uses the credit card that’s in both their names because it’s the only one he has. He’ll have to find some way to pay Derek back later. 

The bed smells musty, horrible. The pillow isn’t right, but Stiles can’t bring himself to get up, to go out to the Jeep and get his own. 

He proves his dad wrong when he sleeps. 

Or maybe he just passes out. 

– 

Walking through the apartment in a fog of grief – Stiles’ and his own – Derek finally sees it. Sees the shirt hanging from the door of the laundry room, the collar warped but dry from where it had obviously been scrubbed with spray cleaner and left for several days. There is still a vague hint of the lipstick that once stained it. 

The lipstick Stiles cleaned from it before he left. 

Derek’s fingers end in claws when he reaches for the shirt; the material shreds under the force of his emotions. The thing that drives him to his knees, though, is that he’d worn the shirt more than a week prior. The shirt had been hanging there for days, most likely, demanding an explanation that Stiles would never ask for. 

Shoulders heaving, Derek goes back to the living room and grabs his phone. He’s about to shove it in his pocket when he sees a text message notification. Hope rising in sick waves, he opens the notification to see that it’s just a fraud alert from his credit card company. But then he looks closer, sees all the information he needs. 

He’s out the door seconds later, Google maps already working on the fastest route to Stiles. 

– 

Stiles rolls over sometime later. He doesn’t know when, doesn’t care. He’s just numb, and he’s letting himself _be_ numb because to be otherwise… He knows it’s going to hurt. And he can’t be alone with that kind of pain. 

So he goes about getting up mechanically. He doesn’t piss, because he’s probably dehydrated. Cupping his hands, he drinks out of the bathroom faucet even if the water does smell a little off and taste metallic. He brushes his teeth, straightens his clothes, and glances around the motel room to see if he’s left anything. 

His phone is on the nightstand, beside the broken clock. 

It’s dead. There’s no telling how long it’s been that way. 

Stiles sticks it in his pocket anyway. Tries to make a mental note to pick up a car charger at the gas station because he left his in– 

The moment of blinding pain makes him shy away from that thought. 

Grabbing the room key as well as his personal keys and wallet, he opens the door. 

– 

Derek looks up at the sound of a door opening, bleary from a sleepless night. For all the false alarms he’s jerked upright through during the early morning hours, this time it’s Stiles. Just seeing him, seeing that he’s safe – if pale and listless – helps Derek wake up. 

He steps forward, then stumbles to a halt when Stiles flinches. It’s the second time in as many days that Stiles has flinched from him and it rips through Derek like jagged claws. 

He did that. _He did that._

Sucking in a harsh breath, Derek puts up his hands, keeps his voice soft when he says, “I won’t stop you from leaving if that’s what you want. But I can't… I need you to know…” He stops, searching somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder for a way to say this. “It was a succubus.” 

– 

“Oh my god, Derek.” At those words, emotion crashes through Stiles for the first time since he got in the Jeep last night. He stumbles forward, hands reaching for Derek, reaching to wipe away the touch of another person. 

Another person who had tried to _use_ Derek like that, who– 

“Wait. You…” Stiles takes a deliberate step back, blinking and shaking his head, his brain inserting itself into the conversation. “Werewolves are immune. You're…” 

He presses the heel of his hand into his chest, tries to massage away the pain. But he can’t because it’s inside his very bones. 

– 

Derek pulls out his phone, opens up his group texts to the pack, holds it out to Stiles. But Stiles doesn’t take it, just shakes his head as he keeps retreating. Keeps backing away because he thinks Derek is lying to him. 

Again. 

“We hunted it,” Derek says. “The pack. I didn’t tell you because…” He licks his lips, eyes dropping to the phone before he just clicks it off and curls his fingers around it. “At first because you were still healing from the kelpie–” 

“That was over a month ago.” 

Wincing, Derek rubs his forehead, nodding stiffly. “I know.” 

– 

Now that Stiles can feel things again, everything is too much. He’s rocketing back and forth between white-hot anger and overwhelming _hurt_. “You’ve been lying to me,” he says, his voice hoarse and painful. He stares at Derek’s hands because he can’t stand to look into his face. 

Not now. Not yet. 

“For a month. You’ve been lying to me every day for a _month._ You let me think–” 

“No!” Derek’s shout drags Stiles’ gaze up, makes him look at Derek, see the lines that fear and pain are creating in Derek’s face. 

The tears come then, filling his eyes and choking him. 

– 

Derek sees the wetness gather in Stiles’ eyes and hurries forward, crushing Stiles to his chest because he can't… he can’t. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t see that _stupid_ shirt. I… I was trying to keep you safe. You’re my whole world.” 

Stiles beats against his chest then and Derek just accepts it. Accepts the pain, because it’s nothing compared to the pain he’s felt all night. The pain Stiles has been feeling … for too long. 

“You were recovering,” Derek says, whispering it into Stiles ear. “And then you had finals. And then we were so close and all her victims were–” He sucks in a ragged breath, seeing them in his mind’s eye. “They looked like you. She had a type, and you fit it too well. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d offer yourself up as bait.” 

“You don’t get to do that!” Stiles yells, jerking backward. His face is flushed, eyes still wet but no longer crying. Now, he’s just _furious_ and something in Derek loosens at seeing it. 

Anger he can deal with. Anger is better than hopelessness. 

– 

Stiles sees red, is literally shaking with the fury that boils within him. “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to decide things for me. God _dammit,_ Derek, I thought we were past this. You sacrificed my _trust_ for your own damn _ego_ and–” 

Derek’s shaking his head, mouth opening to deny it, but Stiles won’t let him speak. Not now. 

“No! You had a fucking _month_ to talk to me about this and you… _you_ decided not to. You didn’t trust me enough to even include me.” 

Derek’s hands cup his cheeks and they feel cool for the first time in memory. He’s shaking his head, lips parted and eyebrows curled in sorrow. “That’s not true, Stiles. It’s not true. I do trust you. I trust you with my life.” 

“But you don’t trust me with _mine_. Do you know what it was like?” Stiles’ voice breaks at the end and the tears are back. “Do you even have any idea? I thought…” Stiles gasps for breath, shaking apart. But this time, Derek is there, embracing him, arms tight as he holds Stiles together. 

– 

Derek buries his face in Stiles’ neck, drowning himself in the aching scents of loss and grief that are steadily rolling off Stiles again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I know you hate me. I know you want to leave. I deserve it. I just needed you to know that I didn’t do that. I _couldn’t_. I love you too much.” 

Stiles goes stiff and pulls away, shaking his head. “No. _Fuck_ you. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make this about you. You hurt me. Maybe it wasn’t on purpose, but Jesus fucking _Christ_ , all you had to do was open your goddamn mouth. All of this could have been avoided if you had just _trusted_ me.” 

Letting go, Derek lets Stiles step back, away from him. He feels everything inside himself crumble because Stiles is… he’s leaving. He’s going to leave. Because of Derek. 

“I swear to god,” Stiles says, swiping at his cheeks with his hands as he starts pacing in the narrow space between the bed and the dresser, “if you ever do anything like this again, if you even come _close_ to being this goddamn stupid again, you won’t have to worry about me leaving. Because I’ll fucking kill you.” 

Hunched in on himself, Derek just nods because… because… 

“What?” 

– 

Derek’s whispered question makes Stiles turn his head, makes him look at Derek, _really_ look at him. There’s so much pain and confusion on his face that Stiles doesn’t understand the question. 

“What do you mean, what? You think I won’t kill you for pulling a stunt like this? Oh, you don’t even _know_ –” 

“You said ‘again,’” Derek whispers, his face pale, looking directly at Stiles. Emotion sparks in his eyes, bringing the green out. “You said if I do something this stupid _again_.” 

Stiles shrugs, looks away. The naked hope in Derek’s face is too much to handle right now. It makes Stiles want to forgive him for everything, and he’s not ready for that. “I love you, Derek,” he says, sighs it really. He’ll be ashamed of himself later. “The only reason I could ever leave you is if you wanted me to. I thought… ” He shrugs, helpless, sucking his top lip into his mouth to nibble on it. 

“I could never want that. _Never_. You’re everything to me.” 

– 

Derek stares at Stiles, who is back to not meeting his gaze. It’s frustrating, but Derek will deal with it. “I’m so fucking sorry I ever made you doubt that,” he whispers, taking a hesitant step forward. 

Stiles looks up and the expression on his face stops Derek in his tracks. “I need you to listen to me,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “I'm… mad doesn’t describe it. But I love you. Which means that I will eventually forgive you because love means letting the stupid shit go. And eventually this will be stupid shit. Not yet. It’s too soon for that yet. But Derek, when I forgive you, you have to forgive yourself too. No holding on and using this to beat yourself up. You did a stupid fucking thing.” 

The floor is suddenly too interesting, drawing Derek’s gaze. “I–” 

“No. You don’t get to argue with me. Not today. If I can forgive you? You can damn well forgive yourself too.” 

– 

Stiles stares at Derek, watches his inner battle express itself across his face. Dragging in a deep breath, Stiles gives in to the inevitable and mutters, “Now get over here and cuddle me. I’ve had a hard night.” 

Derek is there in the blink of an eye, gathering Stiles so tenderly that it _hurts._ Stiles grips him back, arms shaking from how tight he holds on because… 

He knows how empty they were. And though he’d survived it and could potentially survive it again, he never _wants_ to simply survive. 

He wants to live. With Derek. 

Always. 

– 

“You’d better practice grovelling,” Derek hears, even though it’s muffled against his shoulder. “And maybe buy some knee pads because you are going to be spending a lot of time on them.” 

There’s a beat of silence before Stiles adds, “Blow jobs. I’m talking about blow jobs.” 

Derek laughs. It’s rough and shaky, but true. And it gives him an excellent cover story for the tears in his own eyes. “I love you,” he whispers, overcome. 

Eventually they make it back to the bed, which is lumpy and uncomfortable. And for all Stiles’ talk of blow jobs, they spend the rest of the day holding tightly to one another. 

Derek vows to himself, while watching Stiles eat sketchy Chinese delivery out of the carton, that Stiles will never again wake up alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus deleted scene (would have been between the first two sections):
> 
> Derek pulls her close, his hand firm around her throat as she smiles up at him, her glossy red lips parted in anticipation, white teeth gleaming between them. Her breath blows sweet across his own mouth they're so close.
> 
> Close like lovers.
> 
> "What do you want me to do?" she whispers, seductive and sensual like only a succubus can be. 
> 
> Fingers tightening, Derek feels the thrill of exultation course through his veins. His eyes burn blue, his teeth elongate, his claws pushing from his fingertips. "I want you to die," he growls, and just like that, rips her throat out. Watching her body fall to the ground is almost anticlimactic.
> 
> Turning, he sees Scott pushing through the pack toward him. Scott draws up, forehead wrinkling with concern as he takes in the way her blood had sprayed over Derek's face. "You didn't have to do that, man. Chris was…"
> 
> "It's fine," Derek says, pulling a drive-thru napkin from his pocket and wiping ineffectually at the blood. "I wanted it over with."
> 
> "I know it's been hard--" Derek's glare cuts Scott off, who has the grace to wince. 
> 
> "I'm going home," he says, and for the first time in several long weeks, everything feels right.


End file.
